


Through the Layers

by SailorChibi



Series: Push!verse [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bondage, D/s AU, Dom!Sherlock, Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, John Feels, M/M, Oblivious!Sherlock - Freeform, Punishment, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-29 02:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/999882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John thought he could handle moving in with Sherlock, but he can't. He wants Sherlock desperately, wants Sherlock to push him under and help him submit for the first time in years, but he knows that's not what Sherlock wants.</p><p>Fortunately Lestrade's been there, done that, and knows exactly how to knock sense into a stubborn Holmes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was commissioned by an anon who adores the Mystrade story [Be Mine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/488264/chapters/851782) that I wrote a while ago. Anon wanted a Johnlock story set in the same verse. This could loosely be termed a sequel to Be Mine, though it can definitely stand alone and you won't need to read Be Mine to understand what's going on.
> 
> Please go [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1328995) to see the gorgeous cover art created by Cleo_Calliope!

Everything about Sherlock Holmes screams dom.

From the moment of first impact, as John later thinks of it, in the classroom at St Bart’s, there was no doubt that the consulting detective was a dom through and through. There was just something unmistakable about the way that Sherlock carried himself, a subtle bit of self-confidence that John has never been able to figure out how to replicate. Strangely, in spite of that there is none of the cocky assurance that John has come to associate with most doms: Sherlock does not have to _expect_ anything, it just _is_.

The situation is dangerous from the beginning, hardly ideal and no sane sub would willing go along with it, which is why – even though he would normally choose to ignore a command from a random dom – John cannot resist showing up at 221b Baker Street. It all escalates so quickly that before he knows it he’s agreed to move in and then killed a man just to keep Sherlock safe from harm. That’s not usually what subs do, and when he and Sherlock walk off to have a dinner together in the aftermath of the case John can sense that he’s managed to pique Sherlock’s curiosity. 

Nothing about John Watson screams sub.

Not many subs make it into the army, and there’s extensive and regular psychological testing for the few that do. John passed all of those tests with flying colours, to the point where one of the therapists felt the need to sit him down and ask point blank if he was sure that he was a sub. That had opened the possibility of doors for him, and to this day one of the hardest things in his life was saying yes. But he’s not ashamed of being a sub and he wasn’t ready to deny that part of his life.

In retrospect, he probably would’ve said no. It might've kept him in the army even after his injury, instead of getting sent home.

Only then he might not be here, and he honestly can’t decide whether or not that would be a bad thing. Here is on the edge of his bed, trying to figure out what to do about Sherlock. Because the thing is, Sherlock has made it abundantly clear from day one that he is not interested in having a sub. He’s unattached and that’s the way he likes it. Most doms have a deep-seated desire to protect and provide for someone, to be given the right to control, to use their push to coax a sub down into bliss that echoes back. For some of them, not using the push for a prolonged length of time can even be painful.

Sherlock doesn’t seem to suffer from that, possibly because he uses fleeting touches of his push every day to get his way. Even other doms are susceptible to it, though John can hardly blame them: when Sherlock Holmes is looming over you demanding your cooperation, he has the upmost respect for anyone who can shove back with a stern no. It’s one of the reasons that John is a little bit in awe of Detective Inspector Lestrade, who may be a sub but can throw off Sherlock’s push with the best of them.

It’s an ability John has never learned, try though he might. Any dom in the army… every dom but one _since_ the army… but it just feels natural to give in to Sherlock even without the push. Thank god Sherlock hasn’t used it on him, seems to realize that’s a line he’s not permitted to cross, and that’s fortunate because John’s fallen far enough as it is without it. He can’t help but think that if Sherlock were to use his push… if he were enveloped in the warm, soothingly metaphysical version of Sherlock’s deep voice that invites him to let go and submit…

“No,” John whispers harshly, hardly aware of how hard he is scrubbing his hands through his hair. It’s a bad habit he picked up from Sherlock when he gets frustrated, and he stops as soon as he realizes what he’s doing. He can’t want this. Not with Sherlock. Not with anyone who will expect him to be a sub, and that’s what Sherlock would (rightfully so) want.

That’s the problem, though. He _does_ want it, wants it so badly that sometimes the craving is physical and makes him shake. It’s too easy to pretend that the little orders Sherlock gives carelessly, never pausing to think that they could mean something, actually do. Too easy to dream at night about Sherlock’s hands on his body, giving both pleasure and punishment or some deliciously twisted blend of both. Too easy to let himself believe that the intensity between them is fraught with sexual desire and not just Sherlock’s normal state of mind.

Too easy to think about letting go of the past and giving in, because maybe with Sherlock he could forget – 

“No!” Uttering the word louder this time, John stands up and stalks over to the window. His breath comes too fast, like he’s been running instead of sitting on his bed trying not to think about the man just downstairs. Shame and desire course through his belly and he clenches his fists with a shake of his head.

“Get your head in the game, Watson,” he mutters, glaring out at the brilliantly sunny day. This is getting out of control. He’d nearly kissed Sherlock earlier over a cup of tea, had leaned down to hand Sherlock the full cup and been seized by the urge to lean a little closer. Had lingered too long, torn up with wishing that Sherlock would take the choice out of his hands even if John would fight him over it, until Sherlock blinked at him and asked with a spiteful mutter if there was something he needed. 

He needs to deal with this once and for all, get it out of his system before even Sherlock – clueless though the man can often be when it comes to matters of the heart – notices. 

When he first returned to London, Ella had tentatively suggested that he visit one of those clubs that everyone always whispered about back when he was in school. Little places where doms will take care of subs for free or vice versa, subs willing to go on their knees for the lonely dom. She’d encouraged him to visit, even pointed out that the army would pay for it to help him get reacquainted to civilian life. 

“You’ve spent too long fighting against doms, John,” she’d said with that patient, knowing head tilt he hated so much. “You have to start learning how to let them in again, remember that not every dom is your enemy. The anonymity of these places could be an excellent fit for you.”

At the time he’d refused, fed up with her continual lectures about trust and the need to submit that left him aching with hunger at night. Now he seizes his coat and walks out of his bedroom, pulling it on as he clumps down the stairs. The flat is quiet, to the point where he wonders if Sherlock left while he was upstairs trying to get a hold on himself. God that would be wonderful, being able to slip out without bloody Sherlock trying to deduce everywhere he goes (because there’s a part of him that gets a thrill from that, thinks it means his dom is keeping tabs on him).

Fortune, however, rarely smiles kindly on him, and today proves to be no different. Even though he barely pauses long enough to jam an old set of trainers onto his feet, Sherlock still has time to walk into the room. He's actually dressed, notable only because he's spent the last two days camped out on the sofa in his dressing gown and speaking only to order John to fetch the laptop or make a new cup of tea. John doesn't need to look at his face to know that a new case is in the air. He can sense it just from the way Sherlock is moving around the room, collecting his jacket, putting a delicate experiment aside so that Mrs Hudson won't bin it while he's out, and fetching his mobile phone from where it's be stuffed between the sofa cushions.

"John," he says as he tugs his coat on and pulls the collar up, and John has to look away, nearly missing the added, "good, you're ready. Lestrade texted me."

"What?" John says.

"A new case! Lestrade's been sending me some photos, apparently there were two bodies found in the middle of -"

"No." John doesn't want to hear it, because if he stands there and listens he knows he'll feel compelled to go along with Sherlock to find out what exactly is going on. Already he can feel the familiar thrill in the pit of his belly, the desire to fall in line behind Sherlock like a good sub and follow him into whatever danger Sherlock chooses to put them in. 

" - a crowded parking lot, loads of witnesses and no one saw anything, not that I'm surprised -"

"I said no, Sherlock."

This time it gets through. Sherlock trails off and stares at him hard, one eyebrow raised. John stiffens under the intensity of that look, refusing to wilt. It's both addictive and terrifying when Sherlock looks at him like this. He can never get enough of it, having all of that attention to himself, but at the same time he's never quite sure what Sherlock will see. There's too much risk that Sherlock will be able to see below the surface to what John so desperately needs to keep hidden and he turns away, almost staggering, catching himself with a hand to the door. He leans there for a few seconds, the craving a dull buzzing humming jagged underneath his skin.

"I said no," he repeats slower, forcing his voice to come out steady. "I have an appointment that I can't miss. You're going to have to go to this one on your own. I'll - I'll text you later, find out where you are, maybe I can join you if you haven't already solved the case."

"John, it will be -"

He can't stand here and listen to whatever else Sherlock is going to say, because if Sherlock actually asks him to come instead of just assuming that he will John knows he'll fold. He's not that strong. He pushes the door open and propels himself out, down the stairs and past Mrs Hudson's flat. The icy cold London air is like a punch to the gut and he gasps, turning quickly to the left and shoving his hands deep in his pockets. This is the first time he's ever turned down a case with Sherlock and it sits heavy on his chest, mocking him. If he could only keep himself under control, he would be able to join Sherlock whenever he wanted, wouldn't need to miss out on whatever fantastic case Sherlock is going to be a part of.

"Next time, Sherlock," he mutters under his breath, panting slightly from the fast pace. "Next time, I swear, I'll be alright. I'll get this out of my system and we'll go back to normal. Just give me a couple of hours, you can give me that much. That's all I need. I swear."

Just a couple of hours.


	2. Chapter 2

Though the clubs are legal, John is cautious about walking right up to the door where anyone could see him going in. He's chosen a place that could be termed average, having decided that the additional expense will be worthwhile if it keeps Sherlock from being able to bribe his way in if he gets curious about what John was up to. The cheaper the fee the less opportunity there is to be truly anonymous, and right now he desperately needs someone who knows nothing about him. Living with a man who can figure out just about everything with one glance, once in a while it's necessary to sneak off and have a few minutes to himself around normal people. Entering the club feels a little bit like donning a comfortable jumper after being in dress all day long.

The receptionist glances up when he walks in, eyes him up and down before deciding he poses no threat. "Turn your mobile phone off and fill this out," she says, thrusting it in his direction. "If you don't have test results with you proving that you're clean, then your dom will be taking the necessary precaution to avoid disease. We require a safe word during all sessions and on the third page there's a letter explaining that it's your responsibility to use it if you feel it's necessary. Your dom is not responsible for the session getting out of control, if you don't safe word you don't get to sue." Her delivery is crisp for all that she looks bored. "Be as thorough as you can on the form, but if there's something you want to discuss privately with your dom that's your right. Please take your time and have a nice day."

She looks back down at her computer as she utters the last few words and, dismissed, John sits in a chair. He switches his phone off leafs through the stack. The forms are fairly standard in spite of the personal questions, which ask about his likes and dislikes in terms of toys and punishment, if there are any lines not to be crossed, his preferred type of dom, his standard safe word, etc... He spends a few minutes filling them out and ends by deliberately requesting a dom, male or female, who is not a brunet. The last thing he needs is for this escape to remind him even more of Sherlock. He skims the waivers quickly - more of the same, most of them nearly word for word to what he'd had to sign before he went into the army - and signs.

When he's done, the receptionist takes the forms back and escorts him through the door on the right and down a long corridor. John is left alone in a mostly empty room with instructions to strip in a mostly empty room. There is a cabinet on the far side that no doubt contains some toys, but that's it. No chairs, no bed, no nothing. The walls are smooth and white, with no indication that chains have been drilled through them the way he might have thought. It's not what he's expecting, but then again that is the point. He takes his shirt and trousers off, folding them up neatly, and leaves them in the corner. Then he locks his hands behind his back and waits. It takes about ten minutes, during which time he resists the urge to start pacing, for the door to enter.

The woman who enters - and it is a woman - has blonde hair down around her shoulders and a friendly smile. She's wearing a white robe that's loosely tied, revealing a nice handful of cleavage, and thin slippers. "Good afternoon," she says pleasantly. "I understand you're here to be put under, is that correct?"

"Yes." John swallows, already feeling more at ease. She's nothing like Sherlock, god no, but she's gorgeous. Her eyes are light brown and she has pale, freckled skin and long legs and arms. There's an easiness to her that's very attractive. "That's... I haven't been. Pushed under, I mean, for a while now. I just - it's starting to get to me, that's all."

"And you don't have anyone in your life to take care of those needs?" she asks gently.

His thoughts flicker briefly to Sherlock before he shakes his head. She's asking about family, friends, who sometimes step in and take up that role if necessary. He can't imagine going to Harry for help. "No."

"That's alright. I can help you. Since you said it's been some time, we'll start slow." She prowls closer, getting right up into his space, and even though they're the same height it feels as though she's looming over him. John looks into her eyes and feels a little bit of peace falling over him, enough to make his shoulders slump a little out of the automatic parade rest. She notices, reflected in the tiny pleased smile, and he finds himself turning into her.

"What do I do?" he says.

"You don't have to do anything. Just relax, that's all. Would it help if you were down on your knees?"

Yes, he wants to say. Being down on his knees has always had a good effect on him, makes him feel warm and safe and relaxed and _trusting_. He's had some excellent dreams of being on his knees for Sherlock. But then, those were just dreams and that was before. Before the army, before that was tainted, and now he's not even sure he'd get on his knees if Sherlock asked him to. Mutely he shakes his head, and she seems to recognize that she's hit a sore spot already because she backs off with another warm smile and instead lays a gentle hand against the back of his neck. Her palm is warm, fingers curving delicately around his throat, a light pressure against his Adam's apple that he can feel when he convulsively swallows.

"That's alright, then," she murmurs, deep and sweet and low, and shifts closer. Her perfume smells like ginger and it's a comforting scent. He inhales deeply and she makes an approving sound. "You're safe here, you know. There's no one in the room but you and me. It’s just the two of us and you’re doing such a good job already, I’m very proud of you.”

Each word is like a balm and he soaks it up, leaning further into her touch until her breath ghosts along his cheek. Her other hand comes to rest on his forehead and a distant part of him recalls how points of touch are important when it comes to new bonds, but that knowledge feels unimportant. He can feel himself drifting, the tension and stress that have built up in his shoulders dissipating as she continues to whisper in his ear, softly voiced words of tender praise that make his chest swell. 

He loses sense of time as he stands there and he starts to think that this might work. That maybe, all this time, he’s been running scared for no reason at all, and that Ella had a reason for wanting him to come to a club. 

It all goes to hell with the first brush of her push.

A push is supposed to be soothing, relaxing, like being enveloped in warm blankets after a long and hard day of work. John craves that sensation, the feeling of being able to let go and just trust that he will be cared for, that his every desire and need will be met, but the initial spike of panic is always stronger. His eyes snap open and he shies away, one hand coming up to knock hers away as she lets out a grunt of surprise. His breath comes fast as he glances around the room, half expecting to see that they are not alone after all.

They are, of course. No one has snuck in while he was distracted, vulnerable, but it does little to ease the tightness in his chest. His skin feels itchy, too snug.

“Whoa,” she says, holding her hands up in a calming gesture. “It’s okay. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“There must be something.”

“I’m just… not used to it,” he mutters. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize, it’s okay. Why don’t we start with something different, and I’ll introduce the push later?”

A distraction might help, he thinks, and when she directs him to stand against the wall with his palms flat against the cool surface he obeys. She comes up behind him, close enough that he can feel the heat of her against his bare flesh, but not so close that they’re touching. She stands there for a long time, waiting until he’s sufficiently relaxed, before she ghosts the tips of her fingers down the sensitive skin of his waist. Her fingers are cold and he shivers, breathing out into the playful ministrations, obediently parting his legs when a foot slides between his and nudges.

The touching is pleasant, but the back of his neck prickles with unease. Like this, with his back to the room, he can’t shake the thought that anyone could be watching. He’s not aroused and she knows it and the hot flush on his cheeks is shame alone. John clenches his hands into his fists, trying to _force_ himself to fall into it, because it used to be so _easy_ to just let go and he doesn’t want this to be something else that the army has taken away from him.

Eventually, though, she lets go and takes a step back. “This isn’t working.”

“It will,” John says immediately. 

“No. You’re tense, wound up, like you’re expecting me to attack you. You’re not enjoying this and I think if I tried to use my push again you’d have a panic attack.” A worried line draws her eyebrows together. “And even though you’re obviously uncomfortable, you haven’t used your safe word.”

“I don’t need to –”

“I won’t work with someone who doesn’t respect their limits,” she says firmly, cutting him off. “I’m sorry. I’ll administer aftercare, but…”

John doesn’t stick around to hear the rest of her speech. He grabs his clothing and pulls it on quickly. “Don’t bother. I don’t need… I didn’t fall that far. I’ll just go.”

“Wait, you need –”

He doesn’t want to stand here and listen to what she thinks he needs. He leaves with the sound of her voice yelling after him, telling him to stop, and makes it outside blindly. His hands are shaking and his leg aches, but he walks away from the club without looking back. A waste of money and time for all that it had done, he feels no more comforted now than he did before and all he can think about is how Ella had been wrong yet again about what might help him.

It’s colder outside, the temperature having fallen further, and he shivers as he tucks his hands into his pockets. Fingers brushing against his phone, he takes it out and switches it on. A case would help, the adrenaline would be enough to drive away the lingering vestiges of everything unpleasant out of his system. He’s not surprised to see the text message icon lit up on his screen – Sherlock will have been texting him incessantly - but what he sees when he opens them makes him stop walking instantly.

_John, have deduced killer. – SH_

_Are you not done yet? This is tedious. – SH_

_When you’re finished, meet me at_

_d3RG64Gghhhh_

_John, come to the hospital. Sherlock’s been hurt. - GL_


	3. Chapter 3

The hospital is surprisingly quiet considering that it's not all that late at night, the waiting room nearly empty except for a couple of teenagers who look up at John when he walks in. He ignores their stares, striding over to the desk and waiting impatiently for the nurse sitting there to acknowledge him. She takes her time, lifting her head slowly and eyeing him with disdain for a few seconds before she says, "Can I help you?"

"I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes," John says, the words coming out a little more abrupt than he really wants them to, knowing as soon as he sees her face close off that he should try to act nicer to invite compliance rather than demand it. After all his years as a doctor he knows what nurses can be like, how they feel about people who are unnecessarily rude, but in spite of that he can't find it in himself to soften his tone. "He came in at some point in the last few hours with Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

She drops her gaze back to the computer screen. "What was the name again?"

"Holmes. H-O-L-M-E-S."

With deliberate slowness she pecks at each key, pausing to search the keyboard each time as though they’ve moved since the last time she looked, and he stifles the urge to yell at her to hurry it up already. He'd tried to call both Sherlock and Lestrade but neither one of them had responded. Even his texts had gone unanswered, and he was past the point of being concerned and well on his way to frantic. Sherlock had to be fairly bad off if he'd consented to being brought to the A&E - or worse, he hadn't been in good enough shape to consent either way - and John could admit, if only to himself, that he was fucking terrified the detective might not walk away from this case, that he might've been out-smarted and defeated and _god_ he was going to be sick.

The nurse must catch sight of his expression and realize what it means because she says suddenly, "Third floor, room 314. If you need the loo it's down the hall on your right. Lift's just past there."

"Thank you," John croaks, swallowing repeatedly, and turns away from the desk. His throat burns with the taste of bile but repeated swallowing is enough to force down the urge to vomit, and he heads straight for the lift instead. Of course it's never fast but tonight it seems to be particularly slow, as though it can sense his mounting impatience, and by the time the doors finally open he's contemplating the stairs instead. He steps in, though, and lets the familiar swooping lift him up to the third floor.

Signs point him in the right direction as soon as he gets off, this floor every bit as quiet and deserted, and he follows them automatically. Room 314 is not that far away and John stops in the doorway to stare. There's just one bed and the occupant is unconscious or maybe asleep, eyes shut beneath a mop of curly dark hair that is impossible to tame. Sherlock looks dreadfully pale, the only colour in his face being the livid black-and-purple bruise standing out on his right jaw. It looks like someone got off at least one decent shot. Other than that, though, John doesn't see any visible signs of damage and he lets his feet carry him closer to examine his flatmate more closely.

He reaches for the clipboard containing Sherlock's personal information, skimming through it. A knock to the head, he reads, that had left him unconscious and disoriented upon awakening but without a concussion. Possible broken ribs, but after an x-ray they'd determined that he'd only bruised himself. He reads further, noting that there was also a small knife wound on the back of Sherlock's left shoulder that he'd thrown such a fuss about, insisting that he was fine (and John couldn't help the small smirk that curved his mouth as he flipped past the doctor's detailed, less than impressed note about his patient's attitude) that the doctors had needed to sedate him just to be able to put stitches in. Knowing Sherlock, he'd ignore the bruising and the knife wound and be right back up and about as soon as the drugs they'd given him to keep him quiet wore off.

All in all, the diagnosis is that Sherlock will be fine and probably released as soon as he wakes up and gets one more thorough checking over. Relief spreads through him and he feels dizzy, sinking down into the chair stationed beside Sherlock's bed. He sets the clipboard aside and puts his head in his hands, breathing through the sickly feeling that grips him as the adrenaline ebbs away. This is not the sort of excitement he was hoping for, and in the wake of it all he's left feeling worse than ever. He wants to crawl into bed with Sherlock and put his head down on the idiot's chest, make sure that Sherlock's heart is still beating. He wants to feel the warmth of that skin and know it's not gone cold, he wants to hear Sherlock's deep voice telling him to - 

"John."

For a moment, John thinks he's hallucinating. It takes far longer than it should for him to realize that no, that really was the sound of Sherlock's voice. He lifts his head, blinking. "Sherlock?"

"What are you doing?"

"What am I - I could ask you the same question." John straightens up a little, a little flicker of pleasure surfacing at the way that those unfathomable eyes follow. It's good, that Sherlock can focus. "What the hell were you doing? Do you want to explain why I got a text from Lestrade saying that you'd been brought to the hospital because you were hurt?"

Sherlock's mouth presses into a thin line, just this side of a pout. "I was trying to catch a criminal," he says bitingly.

That response is exactly what John was expecting to hear, but it doesn’t make him feel any better. “Why doesn’t that surprise me? Let me guess, you got caught up in the thrill of the hunt and did something stupid.” He pokes Sherlock lightly in the knee.

“It wasn’t stupid,” Sherlock says indignantly, squaring his shoulders. He can’t quite control his flinch when the movement tugs at his stitches, and he takes a moment to breathe before continuing. “Lestrade texted me with information that I originally believed to be a new case, but which actually ended up pertaining to a cold case he’s been struggling with for several months now. A serial torturer, up until now he’s kept his victims alive for weeks before releasing them instead of killing them, and with the new details of the two deaths I was able to figure out who it was. John Smith, a high profile real estate agent who was selecting his victims by -”

“And then you went after him,” John cuts in, horrified. “You went after someone who – Jesus Christ, Sherlock. You could’ve _died_!”

“Did I just not just tell you that he rarely kills his victims? Really, John, you should learn to listen.”

“Because that’s so much better, to think of you being kept and tortured for days.” 

“It was necessary,” Sherlock says after enough of a pause to indicate that he knows damn well his actions were foolhardy. “Smith was expecting Scotland Yard, it seems, and when I approached him first he managed to knock me unconscious. That’s all. Lestrade showed up eventually.”

“Eventually.” John rests his head in his hands, taking slow, deep breaths. His thoughts are rushing around in a confused muddle, but the one thing that is becoming increasingly clear is how close he came to losing Sherlock permanently. If Lestrade had been just a little bit later – because if there’s one thing John’s learned about criminals, it’s how desperate they can get when they’ve been cornered – he would’ve been left standing in the morgue, watching Molly pull the sheet up over Sherlock’s face.

“He didn’t even do that much damage. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

Sherlock scoffs. “That’s because you see but you do not observe.”

They’re not going to have this argument again, not when Sherlock is in a hospital bed. John just shakes his head and sighs. “I’ll never understand why you feel the need to go off on your own,” he mutters, more to himself than Sherlock.

“You had alternate plans.”

A cold feeling sweeps through John’s body. Until now, this very second, he hadn’t put it all together. But Sherlock’s right. Sherlock had tried to involve him, had outright asked him to come, and John had turned him down in favour of going off to some sex club. Even though Sherlock still should have known better than to go on his own, the fact remains that if John had been there Sherlock wouldn’t have even had the opportunity. All of this, these wounds, the possibility of Sherlock’s death, are John’s fault. 

The door opens and a doctor steps in before the silence can stretch on too long. “Mr Holmes, I see you’re awake again,” he says with kind of tension that indicates he’s either dealt with Sherlock before or been warned at length about the attitude he was likely to face.

“I want to leave,” Sherlock says immediately.

“There’s a procedure to follow, Mr Holmes –”

John lets the conversation be washed away by the buzzing in his ears. The chill pervading his flesh gradually changes to a numb feeling that grips him deep, keeping him from participating even when the doctor shoots him a desperate look that clearly invites him to jump in. Sherlock is not his dom (he’s not), but he’s still the only dom John regularly comes into contact with: John’s best friend. He’d nearly let Sherlock get killed and it would’ve been his fault, because of his own selfishness, and the ugly, familiar thought won’t go away this time.

 _Why would Sherlock want him?_

He can’t even do this, be a friend and protector, and that damnable flicker of hope that he’s never been able to squash squeezes tight enough that he can’t breathe.

Somehow he waits for a break in the bickering, the doctor turning away in annoyance when the door opens again to reveal Lestrade, to stand up. Lestrade’s rolling his eyes already, sighing at Sherlock’s antics before turning a friendly grin on John. “Hey mate, glad you could – are you alright? John?”

“I’m fine,” John says and Lestrade’s eyebrows go up. He doesn’t wait around, he takes advantage of the moment to slip out of the room and leave.


	4. Chapter 4

As the door swings shut behind John, Greg Lestrade has to fight the urge to palm his face in frustration. It’s a familiar desire when he’s around Sherlock, but normally professionalism kicks in and prevents him from doing so – even though there’s not a soul in NSY who would blame him. In this case, it’s the fact that the doctor looks like he’s about two seconds away from murdering Sherlock if the only witness in the room happens to look away. He settles for letting out a long, slow sigh and pivoting to face the bed. 

“Is he ready to leave?” he asks, praying the answer is yes. He’s not sure what he’ll do if Sherlock needs to stay longer. Just from a brief glimpse he can tell that John Watson is on the absolute edge and it won’t take much to push him all the way over, and unfortunately there is only one (oblivious, stupid) man who can make a difference at this point. 

“As I’ve been saying, we just need to give him another examination and then he can go. But he is not leaving without it,” says the doctor, setting his jaw.

“And I told you –”

“Leave it, Sherlock.” Greg cuts him off a little more harshly than he’d intended, but they don’t have time for this. Sherlock’s eyes flicker with surprise and a frown tugs at his mouth, but he actually does fall quiet. Greg glances at the doctor and pulls a pleading face. “Can you give us a couple of minutes?”

“Certainly.” The pace the doctor sets for the door isn’t quite a run, but it’s close. 

The second he’s gone, Greg shuffles over to the chair he suspects John has just recently vacated and sits down. He drops the clothing he’d brought for Sherlock to wear home on the stand and sits there for a moment, thinking. He’s not sure how to go about broaching this topic, but he knows that something needs to be said. Someone needs to intervene here, because Sherlock and John are never going to get there on their own. And since Sherlock will never agree to listen to anything that Mycroft says and no one else is brave and/or stupid enough to stick their noses in, he supposes it falls to him. Ironic, really, that he’s finally returning the favour.

“You’re being an idiot,” he says finally.

“I am _fine_. There’s no reason for me to sit through another –”

“Not about that, though considering your definition of fine I’m not sure I believe you. What I mean is… you’re being an idiot about John.”

Sherlock pulls back slightly, eyes narrowing. Greg can practically see the defensive walls springing up as Sherlock says, “There’s nothing wrong with John.”

“The very fact you said that proves to me that you’ve noticed there _is_ something wrong. He’s a sub, Sherlock. Your sub. Regardless of whether or not you want to admit it, you and John are pretty much in a committed relationship by now. And that's fine, I think you’re good for each other, but you’ve got to pull your head out of your arse and start taking care of him the way you’re supposed to!”

“John and I are not like that,” says Sherlock. He sounds so calm and cool that, had he not been in a hospital bed, Greg might actually give in to the urge to give him a good shake. “I made it clear from the beginning that I did not want a sub. Besides, he’s been dating.”

“As I recall, he dated that doctor what’s her name for a couple of weeks. Then they broke up and he hasn’t dated since.” Not that Greg goes out of his way to pay attention to John Watson’s dating life, but the fact remains that noticing is unavoidable. Mostly because Greg remembers having been where John is all too easily: being caught in the web of a Holmes, trying to resist and knowing that you can’t, is nothing short of terrifying. Even now, knowing what he shares with Mycroft, he’s not sure it’s worth it and he doesn’t envy John in the slightest.

He rubs his forehead and sighs, leaning forward a little as though the additional proximity will be enough to convince the stubborn idiot. “Sherlock, look. You might not think you need a sub, or that you even want one, but John has been good for you. You work better when he’s around, you eat and sleep more, you’re not as annoying. Do you really want John to leave? Because I can guarantee you that’s what is going to happen if you don’t step up. I saw his face when he walked out. John’s on the edge of a massive sub drop right now. I don’t think he can take this weird pseudo relationship you two have going on any longer.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a long time, the silence dragging on until finally his expression changes. It’s subtle, but the cocky arrogance has vanished and for the first time he just looks lost in a way that tugs at Greg’s heart. He knows that the Holmes brothers are not tactile creatures, it took ages to get Mycroft to learn to touch him in ways that weren’t purely sexual or with intent, but he can’t resist placing a careful hand on Sherlock’s wrist. The flesh is warm beneath his fingertips, and it takes a few seconds but Sherlock does gradually relax.

“I know you want this,” Greg says, deliberately softening his voice. There’s no point in being accusing, not anymore. “I know you’re scared, much as you don’t want to admit it. That’s okay. John’s scared, too. God knows I was terrified when Mycroft first approached me. You know that, you were there. I still am sometimes. But you have to do _something_. This isn’t fair to you or John. If you do nothing, you will lose him.”

“I’m not experienced,” Sherlock says, voice low.

Greg’s not sure if he means sexually or at being a dom or maybe both, knowing Sherlock. “You and John can learn together. That’s part of what being in a relationship means. No one goes in knowing the right thing to do or say right away. You’ll fuck up and make mistakes. So will John. You’ll talk it out and learn and then you’ll start all over again. You have to ask yourself, is it worth all that? Do you want to be John’s dom?”

For a second time silence overcomes the room, but this time it’s thoughtful and Greg is willing to wait until Sherlock comes to terms and makes a decision. He sits back, unsurprised when, a minute later, the doctor knocks on the door and then pushes it open. “All set?” he asks, looking from Greg to Sherlock. “We’re ready to do your examination, Mr Holmes.”

The doctor looks like he’s prepared for another battle, but Sherlock submits to the exam without further protest. Greg gets up and slips out of the room to give them privacy, but he doesn’t go far: unable to resist listening at the door for any comments that would indicate Sherlock is throwing a fit, but there’s nothing. The room is quiet except for the inaudible murmuring of the doctor, voice low enough to indicate he’s not arguing but giving instructions. It only takes about fifteen minutes and then the door opens again.

“He’ll live, provided he follows instructions,” says the doctor. 

“Thank you,” Greg says with a nod. He glances back into the room, seeing that Sherlock is in the process of pulling his coat on. He’s moving a little awkward, but all things considered he appears to be pretty steady on his feet. “You want a drive home?”

“I’ll take a cab.” Sherlock shoots him a look that Greg recognizes, sort of. He acquiesces with a nod, already making a note to request that Anthea send someone to pick up his car tonight, and follows Sherlock down to the first floor and out the front doors. Night is here and it’s cold now, the breeze brisk enough that he draws his coat closer and shivers.

“Going to be a chilly one,” he observes.

“John wasn’t wearing a heavy coat.”

Sherlock sounds strangely subdued, and it takes Greg several seconds to process and respond. “I’m sure he’ll be okay,” he says, though thinking about John’s face: that was the expression of a man who doesn’t think he has anything left to keep going for, who wouldn’t think twice about wandering the city of London with nothing else on his back but a thin jumper and jacket that aren’t nearly enough to ward off the cold. He can tell Sherlock’s not convinced.

“I tried to text him,” Sherlock adds. “He didn’t respond.”

And that would be why. Greg chews his bottom lip worriedly, wondering how to handle this. “Alright. We’ll check at Baker Street first. Maybe he just went back to the flat. If he’s not there, then we’ll start looking.” And he hopes, desperately, that John has gone back because if he hasn’t then the chances of them finding him before he breaks completely are not good.

The ride back seems to take forever, spent in a sullen silence that has Sherlock staring out the window and Greg wondering how best to approach the disappearance of a sub in the midst of a massive drop. As soon as they pull up outside of 221b, though, he knows that his carefully laid plans aren't going to be necessary after all. Because Mycroft is standing at the bottom of the steps leading up to the door, hands crossed placidly on the handle of his umbrella, looking for all the world as though he just happened to be here at the exact moment that they're arriving. His expression is calm, with no real visible concern, and Greg feels a tiny bit of the rising tension dissipate.

He thrusts a handful of bills at the cabbie and climbs out after Sherlock, too slow to hear the brief exchange of words between the brothers before Sherlock darts up the stairs and disappears inside. Mycroft steps forward to greet him, one large hand sliding around Greg's wrist, inviting him closer. He obeys, shuffling forward until he's close enough he can feel Mycroft's warmth seeping through their coats. Only then does he ask, "John?"

"It just so happens I found Doctor Watson wandering around the city," Mycroft murmurs. "I thought it prudent to return him to 221b where he belongs."

Normally this is the point where Greg would scold him for spying on Sherlock and John, but right now he's just grateful that Mycroft intervened. "Thank god. I think I might have got through to Sherlock for real this time."

"I hope so, as you are likely the only person with the ability to do so." Mycroft's fingers slid up his arm, resting briefly on his shoulder before slipping around his neck. The leather feels cold against his flesh, but it warms quickly and Greg shivers even as he relaxes further. It's been a really long day, what with the case and Sherlock running off and then this whole disaster on top of it. He's ready to go home and not make any decision more strenuous than what he'll eat for dinner and what time he'll go to bed.

"I guess it's out of our hands now," he remarks, allowing Mycroft to turn him around. He's not surprised to see the cab gone and one of Mycroft's sleek black cars in its place. "Fingers crossed that this time those two manage to get it together."


	5. Chapter 5

The flat is quiet, unsurprisingly, lights dimmed in an effort to help avoid straining an already overwhelmed sub. Sherlock enters as quietly as possible, easing the door shut and flipping the lock automatically as he sheds his coat and scarf. John is sitting in his chair, staring blankly at the telly even though it's off. He doesn't appear to notice Sherlock's presence until Sherlock is standing right in front of him, and even then the only reaction is a slow blink. Exhaling in frustration, Sherlock crouches down so that he and John are on the same level and rests a hand on John's knee. The contact, small and unassuming though it may be, is enough to jolt John out of his subdued state.

He leaps up as though shocked, arms flailing in an attempt to get away, but fortunately Sherlock has been expecting this. He slides one arm around John's waist and bears him to the ground. The resulting fight is quick but no less vicious; John knows every dirty trick in the book and, even lost, he doesn't hesitate to use them. He kicks out with his feet and knees and elbows, using his hands to grope for anything nearby that can be used as a weapon. Sherlock's got a black eye and a throbbing left cheek by the time he flips John over and gets him pinned with a knee to the back, hands gripping John's crossed wrists firmly, bearing down until he feels John shudder and go limp beneath his weight. 

"Stop it," he snarls, and John flinches just a little. Yes, there he is - slowly, but Sherlock doesn't ease up quite yet. "That's enough, John."

John stays still, though his breathing becomes noticeably ragged as a slight tremor runs through his muscles. Sherlock scowls, glad that John can't see the expression on his face, because he hates it when Lestrade - and thus Mycroft - are right. "That's enough," he repeats, quieter this time, and keeping John's wrists pinned he places his free hand on John's back. "It's okay."

"Not," John says, his voice muffled by the carpet his face is pressed into. "I - you nearly _died_ , and it was because I couldn't control myself around you - went to that stupid little club and it didn't even work. She tried to dom me and I can't, I just can't, and I thought I could make it stop, and I shouldn't have bothered, I'm meant to help you not want more -"

Sherlock presses down again, firmer, until John shudders hard once and goes quiet. His mind is racing, new pieces of the puzzle that is John Watson slotting neatly into place. Cautiously, he ventures, "Why couldn't she dom you?"

"Can't," John whispers, and the trembling starts up again.

"What did they do to you?" Sherlock murmurs, the deep-seated desire to know flaring up. It's nearly all consuming and he has to grip it tight to force it back, because now is not the time to press for more details that John isn't willing to give of his own free will. "Something in the army, then, it was the turning point in your life. You won't accept being dommed so it must have occurred while you were submitting, when you’d given in to a push..." Thoughtfully, he slides his fingers into John's hair. He can tell by the shivering that John is with him, just barely. He eases off and rises.

"Stand up, John."

It takes almost a full minute, but slowly John gets to his feet under his own power. He's wavering like his legs are weak and won't hold his weight, face pale and haggard but he watches Sherlock with keen, if weary, eyes. Sherlock meets his gaze calmly. "You are correct. You should not have gone to that club. You are mine, and I do not approve of anyone touching you. So I am going to punish you.”

John's eyes widen, mouth parting as though to protest, and Sherlock waits for him to speak without ever breaking their eye contact. He wants to break John down to the bare essence, prove to him that whatever happened in the army will not happen again, until John submits to him and him alone _willingly_. He wants John to want this. He wants, with a surge of yearning that he can admit had been present and thoroughly ignored for months, to know what it's like to surround John with his push. 

"Yes," John says at last. "Please, I -"

"Shh, no more. Take off your clothing and stand in front of the chair. Hands on the arms, legs parted, head down."

Simple, easy commands and John obeys. His hands are remarkably steady as he reaches up and removes his shirt, presumably for the second time today, and lets it drop to the floor. His jeans and underwear follow until he's naked and shivering, moving to follow the remainder of Sherlock's instructions. Sherlock pauses just long enough to turn the heat on before he fetches his crop.

He moves behind John and examines his target, the bare flesh stretched taut over tense muscles, still lightly tanned from days spent toiling in the harsh Afghanistan sun. The idea of it painted with reddened stripes is appealing.

“Understand,” he says quietly, “I am not punishing you because you didn’t accompany me on the case. I do not expect you to be with me all the time. This is because you went to the club and allowed someone else to try and dom you. I accept the consequences of my actions and so should you.”

His first blow is not gentle and John gasps when it strikes, his knees buckling. He remains standing, though, and Sherlock barely gives him a chance to get used to the sting before he strikes John a second time, just underneath where the first landed. John bows his head, breathing through the pain, and Sherlock lands a third blow. He colours John's back from just below his shoulder down to his hip on the left side, until the skin is a little swollen and pink with the flushed pale purple of a new bruise.

He enjoys it, the sharp whistle of the crop as it slices through the air. He takes care of his crop, tending to it whenever necessary to keep the material giving and soft, and he likes seeing the way John shakes a little each time. Gradually the tension is seeping out of John’s muscles as he slumps against the chair, breathing choppy. His hands tremble where he’s holding onto the arms, fingers turning white from the pressure, as the right side of his back is coloured in until it’s a gorgeous landscape of Sherlock’s precision.

John won’t use a safeword, Sherlock knows, and he deliberately gentles the blows until the crop is sliding across the flesh of his neck and John is shivering under the touch – but still silent, still obeying. Sherlock puts the crop aside and steps forward, touching the reddened skin carefully with the palms of his hands. He turns John slowly, catching a glimpse of tear-streaked cheeks and blown pupils, the expression hazy and unfocused and they breathe in unison as Sherlock eases them into the first push.

“I’m here,” he murmurs when John goes a little tense, a residual sense of panic that Sherlock soothes away with their first kiss. John melts into him, opening up beautifully, and Sherlock makes his approval known with a light nip to John’s bottom lip. 

They can’t go deep, not the first time, but the glazed look in John’s eyes tells him he’s gone far enough. He helps John to sink down to the carpet and doesn’t know where to touch first, what to do with this man who has placed all of his trust in Sherlock, all sprawling limbs and tanned flesh begging for touch. It’s overwhelming and he strokes John slowly, fingers sliding across the hardened flesh of John’s cock while the man whimpers and presses his face to Sherlock’s throat. 

“You’re so good, John, so good,” he says, barely aware of the words. This, giving yourself over to someone, is something Sherlock could not do. He’s in awe of John, of the complete faith that John still has in the world, in Sherlock, that he can submit and trust this much. Sherlock is holding something unaccountably fragile but it doesn’t make him want to shy away, he wants more – needs more.

His mind wanders, thinking about the future: learning John’s body thoroughly, what takes him apart and leaves him a broken wreck in Sherlock’s arms. Discovering what his limits are and how he can be made to break past them, what he likes and what he doesn’t and why. He feeds those images into his push and exhales against John’s mouth, urging the man into a sloppy kiss as John keens and arches against him. 

The room is hot now and John’s skin is slick with sweat as Sherlock curves his arm around John’s hip, palming his balls with his free hand. John whines, beyond words, his fingers curling now into Sherlock’s thighs in a desperate bid to hold on. Sherlock leans over him, mouthing his way across John’s neck and ears, because John would let him do anything and that knowledge shores up in his chest, and he wants to do good with that so he bites, gently, in a way he knows John likes and whispers, “It’s okay.”

Mouth open in a silent cry, John shivers hard as he comes apart. He spills over Sherlock’s hands, hips rutting urgently, and Sherlock keeps pumping until John squirms away. He breathes out against John’s forehead and closes his eyes, sliding his arms up until he can wrap John in a hug. It takes several minutes before John twists and holds onto him, weak and languid like he’s been scoured clean for the first time in years.

“That was what you wanted, yes?” Sherlock says, voice low, brushing his nose into John’s hair. He feels clear, solid, anchored. And then, when the silence grows uneasy, adding with a flicker of pleasure, “You may speak now.”

“Yes,” John says instantly, “but –”

“I wanted it, too,” because he knows that’s what John is about to ask. “I’m sorry. I’m not… good with people, not even you. Not even myself.” And it’s not a very good explanation for why he pushed John away for so long, until they were both almost out of time, but it’s all he’s got. 

“It’s okay,” John says, nuzzling his cheek against Sherlock’s chest. “Thank you. That was… the first time anyone’s been able to dom me in years.”

Sherlock has questions, but he holds them back. Later, he thinks, and trails a hand through John’s hair before pulling his head up to kiss him. John kisses back eagerly, months of pent-up frustration and wanting, and Sherlock lets him in willingly. He feels John’s hand slipping into his trousers and groans, opening his eyes just in time to see the expression of mischief on John’s face. John grins at him and Sherlock nods, leans back, willing to allow his sub the time to explore.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [ tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover Art for 'Through the Layers' by SailorChibi](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328995) by [Cleo_Calliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope)
  * [[Podfic] Through the Layers](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3110021) by [Cleo_Calliope](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cleo_Calliope/pseuds/Cleo_Calliope)




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